


but the flame burned on and on

by cordsycords



Series: and so we are slaves to the worst of our insecurities [2]
Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, Character Study, Depression, Drugs, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, This is a 5k leadup to 1k of vampires talking about their feelings, it's been a while hasn't it labn fandom?, mentions of abuse, well this is finally out now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordsycords/pseuds/cordsycords
Summary: Eva is back with Jasper after some time apart, but nothing is back to the way it was before.
Relationships: Eva/Jasper Heartwood
Series: and so we are slaves to the worst of our insecurities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638919
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	but the flame burned on and on

**Author's Note:**

> Eight months to write a sequel to a fic I wrote in 48 hours?
> 
> Yeah, that tracks.
> 
> Accept my humble offering,

_**i. i survived** _

As always, she wakes up first.

One moment she is dead, and then the next she is animate once more. There is no gradual ascent into consciousness, no quiet disappointment that a new day has dawned, no time to grumble about the rising sun, planting her head under the covers for another hour or so just to delay having to actually get out of bed. She is dead, and then she is awake, there is nothing in between.

They don’t move during the daysleep, so she’s still in the same position she wedged herself into the previous night, tucked under his limp arm, her own slung over his waist. She sighs as she pulls herself away from him, pushing her body up so that she can rest her back against the wall. She stretches her arm out, reaching to turn the bedside light on, washing the pitch-black room in a warm sunny glow.

Looking over to her sleeping partner, Eva admires how the harsh lines of Jasper’s face seem to smooth out when he’s asleep when dark thoughts and hungry Beasts cannot plague him like they do in the shadow of night. The pockmarks that had marred his skin have finally healed, and he’s back to full strength after the ordeal of Strauss’ curse on her ring. For how long that will last, she’s unsure, as Jasper’s tendency towards self-sacrifice outweighs his sense of self-preservation far more than is considered healthy.

There had been so much blood, his and hers and more in bags. She’s grateful that he took the drugs, hopeful that he won’t ever have to remember how she pulled out the thorned vines from around his heart. She doesn’t want to have to tell him, and she’ll be happy if he never asks.

She gets out of bed, walking over to the closet. At one point she had unpacked all of the clothes she had brought over, unsubtly moving into his space without asking. He'd been quite indisposed at the time, she was sure he'd eventually be okay with it. She had brought a couple of week's worth of clothing with her: her normal elegant white, some pieces of similar colour but much more comfortable to wear, and, well...

The red stood out amongst everything else that she tended to wear. Bright and bold, it was a statement, to say the very least. She had to go looking for it, folded up in the bottom of an old trunk that she kept under her bed. She pulls her nightgown over her head, absentmindedly letting it fall to the floor, folding up into a little pile. She's drawn to a piece of red velvet with a low neck and a high hem, pulling it on over a flowing white skirt. She still has a few minutes before he wakes up, so she might as well get ready for the night.

There's a full-length mirror she's never seen before propped up against a wall in the living room. She stands in front of it, watching herself as she runs a brush through her hair, separating it into strands. She weaves those strands into two braids which rest on either side of her face, tying each one down with a well-worn white ribbon.

Sighing, she smooths down the fabric of her shirt, turning to look at herself in the mirror from all angles. She’s never considered herself to be a particularly vain person, but perhaps the choice in clothing is bringing out a different side of her. They remind her of old times long gone, times when she was once more concerned with her appearance and how she presented herself to others.

_My Crimson Petal_

She shivers at the thought of those words, wrapping her arms around herself in a weak attempt of comfort. She used to love those words, said to her by another, spoken in sweet whispers and quiet moments, meant to remind her that she loved and that she was loved in turn. She had given those words to another, to him, for him to safeguard, to keep, to know that she would come back to him. She had given them because they had _meant something_ to her. They meant love, and safety, and happier times from the past that she hoped to see again.

And now those words had been twisted, changed and maligned into something that had hurt him.

The sparks that form at the tips of her fingers do not surprise her. They had been appearing on and off for the past couple of weeks, since just before she had sent a text to Jasper asking for some time apart. They tickle against her skin, up and down her arm as it begins to shake. She brings it against her chest trying to hold it still with her other hand. The sparks grow in ferocity, the gentle tickle turning into harsh pinpricks. She closes her eyes, trying to centre herself, to calm down, to--

“Whoa,” he surprises her. She startles, whipping around to look at him, “Sorry.”

Stepping back, she hides her still-sparking arm behind her, “You’re awake.”

“I am. Thanks to you,” his eyes shift over her, looking at her from top to bottom, “The red’s, uh, new.”

“Oh,” she looks down at herself, “Do you not--?”

“No-- _no_ , it’s-- it’s fine, it’s absolutely fine. It’s just. Different.”

“Well, I-- I needed the change.”

He walks over to her, and the sparks finally die down as he approaches, leaning closer to press a kiss to her forehead. Turning back around, she looks back into the mirror, seeing the reflection of his tall body curving over her smaller form. His hands go to her shoulders, curving down her arms to rest at the small gap of skin between her shirt and skirt.

She looks into the mirror, silently hoping that he will meet her gaze in its reflection.

He never does.

_**ii. because the fire inside** _

He thrusts into her from behind, the two of them lying front to back on his small bed. Slow and steady, each movement is marked by a low growl that sounds in his chest and echoed by the quiet creaking of the wire bed frame. One of his arms snakes under her body, curling around and pressing against her chest, bringing them closer together. His other hand plays at the juncture of her thighs, bringing forth soft sighs and long whines that she’s stopped trying to suppress.

She clings to him, one hand entwined with his over her now-beating heart. Her other hand grabs helplessly at the wrinkled sheets beneath her. His mouth goes to her neck, pressing barely-there kisses and soft bites to the bared skin. 

Her high wipes through her, leaving her limbs shaking and body numb, her vision blacking out for a second as he works her through it until she’s reaching down to pull his hand away, silently requesting a reprieve. He accepts, pressing a kiss to her cheek before removing himself. He gathers her in his arms, and she reaches behind her to scratch the top of his head. A content grumble sounds in his throat, and she feels him smile at the skin on the back of her neck.

She relaxes against him, revelling in the feeling of skin on warm skin, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, their breathing just beginning to slow down from their activities. 

But as she starts to grow cold once more, her stomach announces it’s hunger.

_How disappointing, apprentice._

No.

_To risk hunger for such a… superfluous desire._

I’m not that hungry. I’m fine.

_Your efforts are better directed to more suitable vocations for an adept such as yourself._

Please, fuck off.

Her stomach pangs with hunger once more and she groans, curling around herself. The interruption, while unfortunately inevitable, is unwelcome here in this little space they’ve carved out, just the two of them. She had hoped that they would be able to pass the night here, basking in the simple enjoyment of each other’s company until the daysleep took them once more.

But even here, she couldn’t get away from him. He had already infected the labyrinth and caused harm to Jasper without her even knowing until it was almost too late. He knew of her existence now, and there was no running away from him, no matter how much she fooled herself into believing it so.

_Satisfy yourself. You grow increasingly illogical when you hunger._

Go. Away.

_Your anger, as always, is unnecessary._

It surges within her, her spitting hatred of his voice inside her head, repeating words she had heard him speak for years. She can feel it rise to the surface, shattering the veneer of calm that she had spent decades performing, every memory and instance of his abuse she had managed to suppress in a hopeless attempt to move on and live in this dreadful world.

_Out of control again, are we?_

Sparks of electricity play between her fingers.

She snarls, pushing herself from Jasper’s arms and out of bed. He jolts behind her, surprised at her sudden outburst. 

“Eva?” he calls out after her as she stomps out of their room still naked, stalking down the hallway toward the living room. There’s a new minifridge sitting in the corner, an electric tea kettle and a matched set of teacups placed on top. The blood inside the fridge is neatly labelled and sorted, separating the bags that she drinks from the ones she can use in her rituals. 

There’s normally a ceremony to this, heating the blood up and placing it in a teacup to preserve some semblance of humanity. There’s no time for it now, however, she just needs his voice to go away.

Her right hand doesn’t seem to be agreeing with her, still lit with sparks of electric blue, so she has to use her left hand to open the fridge. It immediately goes to the top shelf, finding one of the few bags she has with a higher concentration of intoxicants that she would normally consume. But it _is_ an emergency.

She bites straight through the plastic in her hurry, blood spilling into her mouth and onto her chin and down her arm. The sweet taste of it floods her, and she drinks greedily, letting it wash down her throat. The drugs work fast, overwhelming her to the point that she has to sit down on the nearby armchair to drink the rest. The beginning of the high is her favourite part, the way it sweeps through her like a heartbeat, wiping away that terrible voice from within.

She sighs, sinking into the cushions of the armchair. Once all the blood is gone, after she licks every inch of the plastic bag clean, she drops it mindlessly to the floor, finally sated, or at least as sated as she will ever allow herself to be. The reprieve from him won’t last forever, but it will last long enough.

“Are you all right?” Jasper asks.

She moves her head to look at him, hazy vision making his figure blurred and soft. He had put on a pair of sweatpants, loose and hanging low on his hips.

“I’m fine,” she replies, her voice sounding far away and detached.

“You sure?” He doesn’t believe her, she can tell by his expressions as he walks over to her. He reaches behind her to the back of the armchair to pull off a fleece blanket folded over it. He shakes it open, loosely draping it over her still naked body.

“Of course,” she smiles, watching as he attends to her. She pulls the blanket closer as he kneels down on the floor. He grabs the leftover empty packet off the floor, turning it over in his hands.

“LSD?”

“I-- I was hungry.”

He looks up at her, worry creasing his brow, though she has no idea why he would be worried. She feels happy, and light, and in love.

He told her he loved her and isn’t that a beautiful thing?

She grabs his chin, pulling him up to her, pressing their lips together. She is as hungry for him as she is for blood, devouring him with lips and teeth and tongue, encouraging him to do the same. He pauses, stiffening in her grasp before returning in kind. There’s no need to breathe, no need to separate from one another, his hand goes to the blanket on her shoulder and pushes it, baring her skin for him as he climbs over her on the armchair.

Her thoughts remain quiet for the rest of the evening.

_**iii. burned brighter** _

He is not being subtle.

And, to be honest, neither is she.

The two of them, predators as they are, circle one another and all the things they’ve left unsaid. Conversations dropped before they turn into arguments, topics they tiptoe around with quiet delicacy, dreaded silences that hang openly in the air until they’re finally filled with open-mouthed kisses and clothes thrown off in the heat of the moment.

They’re both doing it. Neither of them is okay, in any sense of the word.

She can feel the static under her skin.

It doesn’t come in bursts anymore, the electricity is always there, pins and needles that numb her hands until she can’t feel anything else. She’s always hungry, the unrestrained expense of magic continuously gnawing at her stomach. The drugged blood helps, and at least for a little while, she can tell herself that everything is fine, that she is allowed to be with the boy that she loves, and no intrusive voice in her head can say anything otherwise.

That voice. _His voice_.

It had been years since she had last heard it. Years spent in isolation, the long process of healing from trauma suddenly toppled over by one single moment spent in his presence. The Beast within twisted itself in response to her fear, imitating the man with cruel precision. She had spent years trying to get away from him, and now she worried that she never would.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch, their legs outstretched, their feet occasionally playing against each other as they read from their respective books. In these rarer moments, she is reminded of a time not so long ago, of shy kisses and restrained nerves. How is it possible to feel nostalgia for something that had only been mere months ago?

_This is a fiction, apprentice._

The drugs are wearing off. Again. He's louder than usual.

_Yet here you are, playing **house** with this rat when there are far better vocations for you to follow._

The numbness sets in, pins and needles running up and down her arms. She tries to continue her reading, drowning out his voice, forcing her mind to make sense of the complicated magical theories of the text rather than listen to his poisonous words.

_This will never last. You are deluding yourself to think that it will._

I don't have to listen to you.

_No. You already know how this will end. It's happened once before._

Stop.

_Your heart brings ruin, apprentice._

No--

_As always, it falls to me to burn it out._

She can feel his breath against her ear.

Her book falls to the ground, the heavy hardcover tome making a large _thwack_ when it lands. Jasper jumps in his seat from the other side of the couch. Her hands lie on her lap, palms up, unresponsive. She glares at them, confused as she tries to move them. Her fingers twitch, but they don't obey.

"Hey," Jasper's toe pokes against the bottom of her foot, "You okay?"

"I can't feel my hands," she says, absentmindedly.

"Oh."

She feels rather than sees him get up from his seat. He coughs, his ragged breath filling the silence as he comes to kneel down next to her. Feverishly, he begins to rub his hands together, breathing warm air on them intermittently. He reaches for her cold hands with his warmer ones.

Electricity arcs between her fingertips. In a panic, she pulls away. Jasper stares at her, his hands still paused, reaching for her. She can’t turn to look at him, can’t turn to see the expression on his face.

“I-- I’m just hungry,” she excuses herself, folding her arms to tuck her hands underneath them.

He sighs, letting the room fall into silence. They circle each other, waiting for the other to give in. He breaks first.

“Okay,” he pauses, like he wants to say something else and needs a second to convince himself otherwise, “What kind?”

“Top shelf, please.”

“Okay,” he stands up, nodding, “Okay.”

He walks away.

She curls her knees up to her chest, pins and needles tingling down her spine.

_**iv. than the fire around me.** _

“What’s wrong?” He asks one night, out of the blue. She’s surprised, but she shouldn’t be. The illusion had to break at some point.

They’re down in the labyrinth, wandering through it’s winding cavernous hallways. She walks ahead of him, his gait beginning to slow just as hers increases, an unconscious decision to drift apart. She trails her fingers against the cool limestone walls, her mind spiralling through the dimensions of the space around her. The structure itself makes her anxious, it’s architecture so confusing that she can’t seem to think straight.

His voice echoes and she stops in her tracks, staring out into the darkness in front of her, the walls enveloped by the pitch-black void. The shadows shift, she tilts her head to the side, remembering to smile as she turns around.

“I’m fine,” she says as she turns to look at him, her fingers tapping against the stone. He’s standing there, in the middle of the hall, his hood pulled up almost past his eyes. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his jeans, stopping him from fidgeting. His shoulders tense, then relax, then tense once more. He tries to speak, then stops, then tries once more.

“Are you--,” he’s nervous, stopping to lick his lips, “Did I do something wrong?”

He breaks her heart, sometimes. Shatters it, even. Her pieces scatter beautifully, shards of glass across the floor. She can feel them as she walks towards him, piercing her skin. Has being with him always hurt this much?

“What? Of course not,” she says, shaking her head, taking his arm so she can grab his hand within hers.

He stoops down so they can see eye-to-eye, his partially-covered gaze searching her face. She can’t meet his eyes, moving her own to avoid his, looking at his mouth or just past his ear. What is he searching for, she wonders. Are her eyes not bright enough, her lips not wide enough? Was she showing too much teeth, too little?

When did she have to start teaching herself how to smile?

“Jasper--” she starts.

He interrupts her, his hand grasping hers a little tighter, “Because if-- if it is me, you can just tell me.”

She doesn’t know how to respond, can’t even wrap her mind around what he’s saying. How could he think that this was all his fault?

His hand moves to her wrist, a vice grip wrapped around her arm. His skin pinches against her. It hurts.

“Please--”

She opens her mouth to explain, then closes it, repeats, trying to find the words. How can she even begin?

The hand around her arm tugs at her, gripping too tight.

It hurts.

_They’ll always be the ones to drag you down._

It hurts.

_Burn him._

Pin and needles up her arm--

_**Burn him.** _

The flash of light is blinding, and for seconds afterward, she finds herself with her hands in front of her eyes, blinking through until she can finally see again. Jasper is gone.

“Jasper!” She calls out the surrounding shadows, her voice quivering as she attempts to see things not normally seen, looking for the hazy presence of his obfuscated form.

“Jasper!” She tries again, her anguish echoed back to her from the unyielding stone of the labyrinth. The sound of silence washes over her once more, and she is alone.

No, never alone.

_Good girl._

“No,” she says allowed, shaking her head as she steps back in disbelief. She feels the voice grin, that insufferable quirk of the corner of his lips, the glare of light off the bright red lenses, “No, I didn’t.”

_You did._

“I wouldn’t--”

_You’ve done it before._

The image of Rodrigo’s smoking corpse flashes through her mind, “No. No, no no,” she shakes her head, taking a step back, the shadows embracing her.

_I’ll see you soon, apprentice._

“ _No!_ ” She shouts at the voice, bright light flooding the corridors once more, crackling electricity running along the walls. For a second there is nothing, the voice is gone. She searches the ground for his ashes, his red velvet overcoat turned to smouldering bits and pieces.

_Still here._

She doesn’t know what else to do. She turns around, the shadows squirming around her.

She runs.

She is aimless, travelling with no direction through the maddening corridors of the labyrinth. It swallows her, shifts itself to fit her will, encouraging her to become one more lost thing within its grasp. If she just allowed herself to stop, to rest and think, perhaps she would be able to orient herself, to give herself the chance to breathe and find the right way home.

But for now, she runs, dragging her hand along the walls to keep her balance, stumbling over her own feet in the darkness. Every few minutes, she turns around to look behind her, to make sure some imaginary pursuer hasn’t been following her. She is still alone, here, just as she should be.

_So you **can** still listen to reason._

She growls. She can escape him, drown out his voice with the sound of her boots hitting the pavement. She can lose herself so deep in the maze that he wouldn’t be able to follow. And then, perhaps, she’d be safe. 

And then, perhaps, he would be too.

_Safer now, without you. Though perhaps that depends on--_

“Quiet!” she yells, slamming her fist into the wall of stone. Lightning sparks across it fifteen feet ahead of her, the flash blinding her before the darkness returns. Her stomach turns in her gut, the ache of hunger passing the threshold into pain.

How does he do it? How do his words bite so much as to affect her to this degree? He always had a way with them, was able to construct a sentence filled with double-meaning and political entendre just as well as any Ventrue, and always managed to insult his foes just as much as he praised them. Every word directed at her was like a deep cut across her cheek, a strike with the sharpest of knives, cruelly wielded to make the wound fester and sting.

She didn’t allow it to hurt her at first, knowing that if she openly acknowledged the pain he caused her she would just be inviting more of his abuse. Every time he cut into her, she would not wince, would only wipe away the blood, and continue. But she can’t continue like that, not anymore. She can’t continue to live in fear of his violence.

Like a wound left without proper care, anger festers. And there is all too much for her to be angry about.

_What have I said about anger?_

“I said, _quiet,”_ she growls, low and threatening at the back of her throat. Lightning shoots off behind her as she continues to stalk forward, half-leaning against the wall to steady herself, “This is _your_ fault, it always has been.”

_You never were one to take responsibility for her mistakes._

“Fuck off.”

_Always blaming **me** for every terrible thing that’s happened in your life._

“Never without reason,” a trickle of blood slides down her cheek, dripping to the cold stone floor below her feet

_Let it go, apprentice. It’s over, now._

Drip. “What’s over?”

_**I**_ _wasn’t the one who hurt him, apprentice. You did that all on your own._

“No, I--” Drip.

_I’m not here, remember?_

“Wait--”

_I never was._

Drip. Drip. Drip.

_**v. i fell down into that dark chasm,** _

For the first time in months, as cruel hunger tears at her gut, and branches of lightning spark off every part of her body, it is finally, blessedly, quiet.

Which makes everything, all together, quite horrifying. Trapped in the labyrinth, an endless abyss of corridors and shadow, with nought but her own thoughts to keep her company.

And they had always been her thoughts, hadn’t they? That inner voice that sounds so much like another is just another aspect of her eternal curse, but it didn’t necessarily originate from it. And that had always been the fear, hadn’t it? That the internal Beast wasn’t just a byproduct of the Kindred unlife, but a remnant of her human one as well. Everything dark and terrible drained from her soul and left behind to simmer in this rotten shell of her former self.

And so when Strauss’s voice is gone, all that’s left is her own.

And somehow, that’s even worse.

“I hurt him,” she confesses to the shadows, “I’m angry, and I hurt him.”

The shadows don’t reply. No one does.

“Your anger is unnecessary, apprentice,” she says in lieu of his normal response, matching the cadence of his words, the derision of his tone.

Why did he have to be right? This wild and reckless part of her, burning and uncontrollable, righteous and bright, and what had it gotten her? He was nowhere closer to dead, nowhere near some type of penance for the sins he chose to commit against her. He had made her angry, so angry, and all that anger had done was hurt someone else who was only trying to help.

It had been months since they last spoke, but even that single meeting was enough to reduce her to this. And how easy it had been for her persona to crumble, the cool and mysterious White Witch of Griffith Park, now just a girl, angry at the world and lashing out in a pointless tantrum.

And so it was. Pointless, that is. All this anger, leading nowhere but to hurt little boys and lost little girls. Better just to bury it, to hold it down and cast it away. She could never forgive, but forgetting had been enough for her. But what is there to do when she can’t forget anymore? When every tragedy of her past plays before her like the movies she saw in her childhood, scenes switching from one to another in the blink of an eye.

What is there to do? When all there is, is anger?

Still hungry, she collapses, dragging herself to sit against the wall of the tunnel she’s found herself in. She brings her knees up to her chest, curls around herself, and makes herself small.

In the heart of the labyrinth, she condemns herself to the shadows.

_**vi. but the flame burned on and on.** _

The first thing she notices is the smell of his blood. Sweet and simple, heady and addictive, the most wonderful taste in the world plays at the edge of her senses, bringing up memories of the liquid on her tongue. She licks her lips, the scent rousing her from the edge of torpor. Curled up against a stone wall, she tries to push herself up from sitting, but her arms feel weak, her knees shake, and she collapses back down, her legs sprawled out in front of her. She groans into the darkness, angry at her useless limbs.

“Eva?” Jasper whispers.

She moans again, the scent growing stronger as he moves closer. She extends her senses, looking past the shadows and through the darkness as his hunched form approaches her, crouching down to her height. When he is within reach, she strikes with a hiss and surprising quickness, reaching out to claw at his arm. He retaliates in turn, a burst of strength plucking her arm from the air and pinning it to the wall. She struggles against the grip.

“Sorry,” he mutters, unperturbed by her aggression, “You’re… very hungry.”

The scent is intoxicating now, the delicate flesh of his neck mere inches away from her fangs. She attempts a strike once more, his other arms moves hold her down across her chest.

“Sh-sh-sh,” he soothes, “Wait… just one second,” he struggles against her thrashing, reaching into the pocket of his sweater to reveal a blood bag, “I’ve got you.”

Her fangs pierce the plastic of the bag as she grabs his wrist, wrapping her fingers in a vice-grip against his cold skin. He keeps a hold of the bag, letting her drink from it. When some of the blood drips down his arm, she slides her tongue over the smooth flesh of his wrist, almost able to convince herself that she’s drinking the real thing. The taste is completely wrong, but it satisfies her enough until she can finally come back to her normal self. With her hunger sated, she lets go of him, leaning back onto the wall as she brings up a hand to wipe the blood from her lips.

“Hey,” he says, staring at her.

As soon as the word leaves his mouth, her hands jump to his skin, pushing the deep crest of his hood back to reveal his face, running her fingers against the hollow of his cheeks. She turns his head from one side to the other, frantically looking for any remnant of injury, searching through her mental catalogue of his appearance to find where she had left her mark. He waits as she checks him over, trying to remain still, but continuing to move incrementally closer to her, chasing the contact between them that had disappeared in the past few weeks.

When she is finally done, when she is assured that she did not hurt him, his hands come up to meet hers, pulling them back from his face. He presses a light kiss to the inside skin of her wrist, then rubs it away with the swipe of his thumb. He holds their hands between them. She can’t pull her eyes away, can’t seem to look up to meet his gaze. 

“I thought I hurt you,” she says.

“No, you-- the lightning was--” he stops and starts again, trying to find the words, “You didn’t hurt me. I tried to stay, the lightning made me run.”

She nods her head, her hands are shaking, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” he leans in closer, pressing his forehead to hers, “There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”

She laughs, “That’s a lie.”

He sighs, pulling away to sit against the wall next to her, their hands between them still intertwined, “There are things that I should apologize for.”

“We’re both allowed to be at fault here, Jasper. I don’t think the blame has to rest solely on either of us,” she follows him, leading him to put an arm around her shoulders so she can tuck herself closer.

“We should talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“I mean,” he shifts, “We could go somewhere a little less _spooky_.”

“I like spooky,” she smiles to herself, “Besides, there’re less distractions here.”

“Fine. D’you want to go first?”

“You first.”

He stays silent as he ponders his first question, “When did the, uh, lightning start?

“Strauss,” she replies plainly, “He has a way of getting under my skin. In more ways than one.”

“How?”

“I can hear him,” she admits, “Since that night, he’s been in my head. Well, not him, but--”

“Your Beast,” he finishes for her.

She nods, “And I can’t-- he’s just-- he’s _always_ there. Everything he _says_ , and everything he’s _done_. And he just makes me so--”

“Scared?”

“ _Angry,_ ” lightning sparks between her fingers. He hisses, but doesn’t let go of her hand, “And I thought I could stop it, could hold it back, prevent it all from affecting me like this, but everything-- it’s all _so much_. And I can feel it consuming me.”

“Has the lightning happened before?”

She shook her head, “Never. This is new. And I can’t seem to control it.”

“Why are you trying?”

She jolts up, turning to look at him, “What?”

“Well it seems-- and I’m just guessing here-- that the lightning might be the byproduct of trying to stifle your emotions, rather than the emotion itself.”

“But he said--”

“Who said? Strauss? Your Beast?”

She wraps her brain, trying to match his words with a moment in time, the movement of lips, “Your anger is unnecessary, apprentice,” she quotes, mumbling the words under her breath.

“Well that’s-- I don’t know-- You never told me the… extent of what he put you through. But even with what you’ve implied, along with my impressions of the man himself, I can imagine a thing or two. And if what I can imagine is even half as bad as what actually happened… well. I think you have a reason to be angry.”

Pondering his words, she turns to look at him, meeting his gaze. He looks back, his eyes earnest, his face still lined with the barest hint of worry. She leans forward, presses her lips against his in the barest hint of a kiss. He doesn’t respond until she continues, presses harder, seeking entrance into his mouth. It feels like the first real kiss that they’ve shared in the past couple of months as if the previous ones had all been just an act. Soon enough, his arms are around her, pulling her closer, and then she brings her leg over his own to straddle him, grabbing onto the front of his hoodie to hold him. Her hands travel further downward, lifting up the hem of his shirt to feel the cold skin of his back, her fingertips dipping beneath the back of his jeans. They feel tingly, the tiny sparks of static electricity suddenly returning, but just as she’s about to pull away she feels the smallest purr of pleasure grumble in his chest, and everything clicks into place.

She doesn’t know how long they remain sidetracked, but eventually, their impromptu make-out session slows down to the point where he can get a few words in between the meeting of their lips, “I thought-- You said-- There would be-- No-- Distractions.”

She chuckles, leaning back so she can sit on the top of his thighs, his hands moving away from her waist. She regards him for another second before asking, “My turn?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I have to ask?”

“I think-- I think I need you to.”

She nods, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fi--,” he starts, the lie so easily bubbling to the surface. He stops it quickly enough, then tries to start again, but stops himself once more.

“Jasper--”

“I’m scared,” he admits, his voice quiet and timid. He draws into himself, his shoulders hunching as he looks downward, his hands moving to his lap, “Terrified, really.”

She doesn’t talk, just waits until he feels the need to continue.

“I think after multiple near-successful attempts at my life I began to realize-- I don’t think there’s any possible way for me to not die in this war,” he said, hesitating before carrying on, “And before I-- before I met you, I don’t think that mattered. I always knew-- assumed really, that I was going to die some horrible and gruesome death. But now it-- it matters.”

“Jasper--”

“And _you_. You scare me. But not-- _you_ don’t scare me,” he stops, trying to gather his thoughts, and put them into words, “It’s just-- you hold so much of me, Eva. And I didn’t think it could ever hurt the way it did.”

There are no words she can think of to comfort him, so she sits up on her knees, bringing him into her arms and holding his head to her shoulder, not caring about the pools of blood welling in the corner of his eyes. He grasps her as shivers of barely contained emotion wrack his body. She kisses the top of his head, running her hand over the skin of his neck, down his back.

“I love you,” she whispers without thinking and then regretting it. Not that she said, but that her admission was so quiet, worried that he had not even heard it.

His shaking stops, “Say it again.”

“I love you,” she repeats, louder this time.

He removes himself from her embrace, leaning back so he can look into her eyes, “I love you too.”

She smiles, feeling lighter, a weight that she never even realized was there finally lifted from her chest.

On the way back home, they walk through the labyrinth, their connected hands swaying between them, and her head remains silent. She doubts it will stay that way for long, the voice is sure to return, and probably sooner rather than later. But, perhaps, with him by her side, it won’t be all that bad.

For now, she has hope and a boy that loves her.

And she loves him back.

And isn’t that a beautiful thing?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Fallout New Vegas for providing such a bomb-ass quote.


End file.
